


Wide Awake

by LoveLongSinceForgotten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: FEEELLLSSSSS, Fluff and Angst, Hospital, It may or may not break your soul, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, You're Welcome, based on lyrics from a Katy Perry song, don't hold it against it please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveLongSinceForgotten/pseuds/LoveLongSinceForgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds himself in a waking dream. He doesn't want to wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wide Awake

**Author's Note:**

> This was entirely inspired because I heard the lyrics "I'm wide awake" (not even the full song, just those words XD) and my brain went on a tangent. I'm kind of stunned. Hope you enjoy!

It starts on a Sunday.

John wakes to blinding lights and the residual smell of antiseptic.

Hospital then.

There’s a throbbing in his head and an ivy in his arm.

He decides to go back to sleep.

_Monday_

Sherlock never smiled on a Monday.

It wasn’t an altogether common occurrence in and of itself. Sherlock smiling. But John was absolutely sure that Sherlock never smiled on a Monday.

It was just one of his absolutely innumerable quirks. Like the fact that he never read the newspaper on Sunday, or cleaned his skull at least once a month, or brought Mrs. Hudson a pie every Christmas.

Peculiar, to be noticed, but typical. Something John always remembered.

It was a Monday.

The calendar even said so.

And Sherlock was smiling.

John wakes up.

 

 

**Monday.**

 

John wakes up with the absolute worst taste imaginable in his mouth. He thinks he remembers it vaguely from the last time he woke up. It feels like something that’s been there a while.

He hates it.

He still can’t bring himself to muster up the strength to open his eyelids. If he opens his eyes, then he can move. If he moves, he can stand up. If he stands up, he can go in search of his toothbrush.

He’s not opening his eyes.

John decides to go back to sleep.

 

_ Monday _

 

The calendar remains the same. Time seems off. How long has it been since he last marked the days? His phone says it’s Monday. But wasn’t it Monday yesterday?

His head hurts. Perhaps he drank the night before. Is he hung over? His body feels oddly light but he doesn’t feel dizzy. He feels…relaxed.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt relaxed. He’s sure. He can’t seem to remember why.

He goes downstairs. Maybe the newspaper will tell him the proper day?

Sherlock has the newspaper.

He looks up when John walks in.

Sherlock smiles.

John finds himself smiling back.

 

 

** Tuesday **

 

John wakes to a flurry of movement. He can feel it. Hands scrambling around him. Puffs of breath as a large number of someones bend over his body. He’s being electrocuted. He feels the jolt flying through his frame. He shakes with it. But no. They’re placing paddles on his chest. He knows the familiar shapes on either side of his sternum. He must have been flat lining. He doesn’t feel like he had been flat lining. A doctor would know these things.

He still hasn’t opened his eyes. Maybe he should go back to sleep.

He does.

 

_Monday_

 

Has he slept since then? He could have sworn he was in the living room, just moments before. He’s staring at the dining room table now instead. Maybe he hadn’t slept. Sherlock was still sitting. Albeit in another chair. John feels like maybe that should be disconcerting. He can’t seem to remember why.

Sherlock is still smiling.

He’s holding out the newspaper.

“Looking for something John?”

“Oh God yes”. It feels familiar. Even the connotation. Maybe he’s said it before. What was the question again?

Sherlock’s smile spreads. That shouldn’t even be possible. His face seems to be practically splitting with it.

Now John feels disconcerted.

“Sherlock…what’s that on your forehead?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock seems less than disturbed.

“It’s…it’s red Sherlock.”

“Ah, just a wee bit of blood then.”

John’s movement stops. He hadn’t actually been moving before, but now he goes absolutely still.

“Sherlock you’re bleeding.”

Sherlock looks up then, the small line of blood trickling from beneath his hair growing thicker. He doesn’t seem concerned.

“Sherlock, why are you bleeding?”

Sherlock says nothing.

John wakes up.

 

** Tuesday **

 

They’ve left him alone. No more flurry of movement. No more beeping and half snatches of sound from various machines. No longer even the harsh glow of light from directly above his head. John wonders if maybe they’ve turned off the lights. Or he’s gone blind. He’s not worried enough about the prospect to open his eyelids to find out. Some small part of him is wondering why he refuses to even put forth that much effort. Another, entirely larger part of himself, knows perfectly well why.

He goes back to sleep.

 

 

_Monday_

 

 

They’re on a street. Sherlock is running, and John, true to form, is following after. Must have been for some time. John can’t seem to quite manage to force enough air into his lungs and his legs have long since stopped feeling sensation.

John can’t remember the last time he was this happy.

They stop.

Sherlock swivels, his eyes wild. Searching. He finds a scrap of something on the ground below. Holds it up for John’s inspection.

“A bit of fabric?”

“Look closer John.”

“….A dark colored bit of fabric”

Sherlock barks a laugh.

They’re in a restaurant. John can’t remember entering. But it can’t have been too long since. After all, his lungs are still burning. He still can’t quite seem to catch his breath.

Sherlock is absorbed. Gazing out of the window behind them.

“Sherlock?

”Sherlock makes no motion to move.

“Sherlock what are we looking for?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

“I sincerely doubt that”

Sherlock barks another laugh. When was the last time John heard Sherlock laugh? Wasn’t it moments before? In the alley? But when were they in the alley? No. It seems like it was before that. A long time since. John doesn’t like the swooping sensation that’s set up in his chest.

Sherlock doesn’t turn around.

Blood is trickling past the edge of Sherlock’s hair again.

John is suddenly grateful that Sherlock hasn’t turned around.

John can’t bear to see what’s become of his face.

He feels with a sense of certainty that he wouldn’t like it.

John wakes up.

 

 

**Wednesday.**

Someone’s speaking to him. He can hear the rumble of their words disturbing the air around him but can’t quite bring himself to tune in. The voice sounds masculine. Familiar. But there’s only one voice that John would consider listening to. This voice isn’t it. John decidedly blocks him out.

 

_Monday._

 

“Sherlock why are you playing your violin at three in the morning?”

It was a stupid question. Sherlock’s raised eyebrow and emphatic swaying of his bow makes this point clear. John shrugs. Not the worst offense, all things considered.

It doesn’t seem like it’s three in the morning anyway. John phone says it is, but there’s light shining through the window. John can’t quite muster up the strength to find that perplexing.

Instead he lays his head against the back of the couch. He doesn’t remember sitting down.

Sherlock’s playing something familiar. John can’t quite put a name to it. John has the sudden realization that Sherlock wouldn’t know its name either. John fights the wave of panic back forcibly. Sways his head to the dulcet tones instead. He wakes up.

 

**Wednesday.**

 

“John. This isn’t what he would want.” John recognizes Mycroft’s voice. He feels a sense of foreboding in his ability to recognize this newfound realization. He wants very much to go back to sleep.

“You know this isn’t what he would want.”

John’s heart monitor picks up. He resists the urge to panic at his ability to actually recognize what machine it is. All he wants to do is go back to sleep. Just like Mycroft to keep him from even this one simple pleasure.

“Please John. Fight. Not for me, but for him”.

John’s never heard Mycroft’s voice like this. Too much inflection. John doesn’t like it.

He forces himself to go back to sleep.

 

_ Monday _

 

“I know this isn’t real.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow in John’s general direction.

He stills gazes distractedly out the car window. John doesn’t mind.

“I’ve known for quite some time.”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders before turning his attention towards John’s face.

“And what exactly do you want to do about it?”

John returns his shrug.

“Nothing I suppose. I don’t like it out there”.

The “Without you” goes unspoken.

Sherlock nods his head as though he had heard it anyway.

There’s blood running across the entire expanse of his forehead now. The blood in the back is ten times worse, flooding the seat behind him in a waterfall of red.

John doesn’t mind.

Sherlock’s lips curl up in a smile.

Less than genuine. A touch too wide to be real.

John truly doesn’t mind.

 

** Friday **

 

It’s better this time.

John wakes once more to a flurry of movement, seemingly even more frenzied than before. He tunes it out. His body is steadily growing more and more numb. John welcomes the sensation with open arms. Perhaps he is flying. It feels a bit like he is flying. It could be falling for all he knows. But that’s just the thing. He doesn’t know.

John feels blissful.

 

_ Monday. _

 

They’re holding hands. John always wanted to hold Sherlock’s hand.

He was never quite sure where the urge came from. It was just a sudden realization. A sudden urge. A startling moment of want that had stuck with him for all of the years of their partnership.

He had never had the opportunity. They had never passed that line.

They are now. Sitting in the warm sunlight, just a touch too comfortingly hot for a typical day in London. They’re having a picnic. John strongly suspects it was his idea.

“Why is it always Monday here?”

Sherlock looks at him a long moment. John has the inkling that it’s not going to be Sherlock that answers.

“Ahh, because that’s the day you died. Makes sense I suppose. I give my mind high marks on that particular attempt at melodrama”

Sherlock laughs. John feels warm all over.

“I blame you for dying. Did you know that?”

Sherlock’s eyes meet his, but he does not speak. John wonders vaguely if that’s his mind losing its ability to create the dream. He has the vague notion that it’s been some time since he last woke up.

His body may be losing its cognitive function as it begins its decent into death.

John doesn’t feel the ache of loss like his mind tells him he should. Death means end. Death means finality. And in some ways, if his belief in a deity are correct, death means possible reunion.

John feels even warmer at that particular idea.

“Well I do. And I feel entirely allowed. You were so intelligent Sherlock. So damn smart. I believed in you. Believed that you would be able to outwit Moriarty in those last moments. I was so sure. So absolutely sure that you would switch everything on its head and….”

Sherlock gives John’s hand a decided squeeze. John’s heart unclenches just a little.

“But I suppose I forgive you. After all, you’re dead. You should always forgive the dead.”

The blood is worse today. John knows what blood feels like. He knows the texture, the feel of it between fingers, the cloying smell of copper that steals the air from your lungs. He knew all of this all too well before ever falling into this waking dream. His mind has an overabundance of details to work with.

And it’s using all of them. Including the indention in the back of Sherlock’s skull. And the deathly unfocused glean of Sherlock’s sightless eyes. John focuses on Sherlock’s mouth instead. He also knew the exact shape and size of Sherlock’s smile. That detail was easier to focus on. Less heart rending.

Until the blood begins to pour over their expanse.

John closes his eyes. Curls closer to Sherlock’s frame. But he never knew Sherlock’s body that intimately. He’s back to vague notions of what Sherlock’s body would feel like.

He opens his eyes again.

The macabre was better than the not knowing.

John feels the pull of wakefulness. He doesn’t want to wake up. He thought he was done with this waking business.

All he wants to do is sleep. Forever.

Sherlock is shouting.

Sherlock shouldn’t be shouting.

It was grating against the edge of John unconsciousness. Urging him to wakefulness.

But he shouldn’t be awake.

Why is he beginning to wake?

What is Sherlock yelling?

He can’t seem to make it out. But he should be able to. Because it’s just so damn familiar. John’s heard him yell it before. Multiple times. So familiar.

“JOHN!”

John felt warmth spread through his chest and this time it felt like it was coming from outside the dream. But that couldn’t be right. That world offered nothing but loss. Nothing but chill.

Something was shaking him.

Not inside his mind, outside. Stark, warm and so real.

He was awake. His body was being dragged forcibly back to consciousness. John felt like he should feel offended except the touch was just so damn comforting. He can’t figure out why. Maybe because said touch was linked up to the voice. The voice that just kept yelling.

His name. The voice kept shouting. His name.

There were other words. Most of them John couldn’t discern. Everything felt woolen. None of the sensations seemed to be hitting right and John couldn’t seem to find his balance. He recognized a few. Words like “wake” and “up” and “please”. And a few that seemed decidedly unflattering towards him. But even those made him feel more and more alive by the second.

Because the voice was still calling his name. And the voice was the only voice he wished to listen to.

John opened his eyes.


End file.
